


means to an end

by peggyismywife



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Post Season 4, Suicidal Thoughts, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggyismywife/pseuds/peggyismywife
Summary: writing s*icide is tricky because it is NOT my intention to romanticize the idea at all, and putting it in a fictional setting can do that.24/7 Crisis Hotline: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Networkwww.suicidepreventionlifeline.org1-800-273-TALK (8255) (Veterans, press 1)Crisis Text LineText TALK to 741-741 to text with a trained crisis counselor from the Crisis Text Line for free, 24/7
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	means to an end

He knows there are far more efficient ways.

So many alternatives it was shocking. Hell, if he wandered off in any direction he could be taken out instantly by a sniper. The cynical part of him supposes its his flare for the dramatic that has him holding the scalpel in one hand and his tensed forearm in the other. But its more likely the voice telling him not to, to choose such an impractical and reversible way to go, a weak spot in his latest plan for self destruction.

He stares at the pale underside of his forearm and feels sick. Funny, how when bombs explode overhead and nurses scream around him, he can cut flesh just fine. Yet sitting on the floor of a dark camp shower, his right hand trembles. He's not scared, well, he _is_ , but he's always scared these days. He's not even crying. He _hates_ that he's not crying. Is he such a monster now that he cant manage the tears? Is death, even his own, so routine it has no poignancy left? It strikes him with a cool glare how truly easy it would be. Thats why he's here isn't it? and he wants it. _Want_. Its the only emotion he feels right now, what keeps him here, the only emotion not blocked out of his brain in this moment of self-annihilation. But he's still alive, so there must be a hidden mechanism in his mind thats making his hands feel like lead. Like running in a dream, you think you're moving, but your body won't obey. Maybe if–

"Don't."

He tenses suddenly and feels the gaze of the face looking at him over the shower wall. _Fuck. how had he not heard him coming in?_

He remains completely still in his position. Hoping that somehow there wont be any followup. knowing there would. hoping there would...

"I saw your bed empty and didn't recall any place you ought to be. I came looking." 

_Twenty minutes too soon._

" _Hawkeye_ , put it down."

Bj's voice is steady. Not pleading, not demanding. level. He gives his manner an air of casualty not befitting the situation.

Hawkeye knows it's hopeless now. Even being quick, Bj would be quicker. He could go for his jugular, but he knows he lacks the conviction to get it deep enough, besides this was supposed to be a quiet thing. Something that happens in the dead of night like the formation of dew or the passing of an old pet. Thats how he had diminished and justified what he would do. 

Now it's over.

He lets the scalpel fall from his cramped right hand, hitting to the floor with the dull thump of metal on damp wood. He remains in the same position though. Like in a deep meditation, crosslegged, tensed, his body rigid in a pre-suicide strike.

Once Bj sees the scalpel fall he slowly pushes open the first stall door, and pulls open the one separating him and Hawkeye. Keeping his eyes on the knife, he crouches down and slides it under the stall wall, out of reach.

Hawkeye's back is to him.

_He’ll be angry, they always are when you talk them out of it._ Angry and ashamed.

Shame is what Hawkeye is feeing. It burns in his throat as he looks at the moldy wood floor. It's actually an amalgam of emotions released, but he interprets the primary one as shame. How pathetic this must look to Bj, a _doctor_ using such an impractical method. It's like he wants attention, like he isn't serious. And he can't even prove how serious he is now, that this isn't a grotesque stunt for empathy. Is it the shame of being caught trying to do something he'd talked so many others out of? Or is it the shame of your best friend now knowing that you were ready to leave him behind.

Bj reaches out and places his hand on Hawkeyes shoulder. It jolts a bit and remains tense, then in a slow acceptance it falls.

They sit in the bond of human touch, energy running from one man's palm into the shoulder of another, and then back again.

"I know." Bj says to the walls of the shower, hoping they might fall into Hawkeye's ears.

Hawkeye knows he knows. everyone in this god forsaken place understands. what good does that do him? What he doesn't know is how, _why_ , he's the one who can't go on.

"It's killing me."

He manages to say. Feeble, weak-voiced from hours of not talking and planning his own demise.

Bj stands and shifts over into the stall with him. Sitting back on the floor with a facing view of Hawkeye's hunched form.

"Thats all war can do."

He can't say anything more than that.

He reaches forward and gently pulls the sleeve down over Hawkeyes bared forearm. He buttons the end gently.

"I'm sorry."

He forces out of his tight chest. The words are almost inaudible.

But he means them.

Bj answers without hesitation.

"I know."

Hawkeye still wasn't crying. He's afraid that that part of him is lost, another casualty of the war. His head still looks blankly down, its so heavy.

He's exhausted. It's as if every atom of his body got a little heavier, like a million little strings are pulling him down to earth. And it seems he is now away from himself. He feels Bj come closer, maybe embracing him? Y _es that's it,_ he is now in Bj's warm arms. He feels muffled, like he's wrapped in a cotton ball. His head is against Bj's chest and he feels the shirt beneath his head getting damp.

Through a haze, Hawkeye, ever the doctor, instinctively listens for a heartbeat against Bj's chest.

Its there. strong. steady. warm.

**Author's Note:**

> writing s*icide is tricky because it is NOT my intention to romanticize the idea at all, and putting it in a fictional setting can do that. 
> 
> 24/7 Crisis Hotline: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Network  
> www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org  
> 1-800-273-TALK (8255) (Veterans, press 1)
> 
> Crisis Text Line  
> Text TALK to 741-741 to text with a trained crisis counselor from the Crisis Text Line for free, 24/7


End file.
